


Davening Dwarves

by westrons



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Elrond Is A Religious Voyeur, Gen, Jewish Dwarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westrons/pseuds/westrons
Summary: Elrond stumbles across Thorin's Company in the middle of their morning prayers.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Davening Dwarves

**Author's Note:**

> We truly love to see Jewish Dwarves. I've been missing davening in shul recently, so here's a little something while we wait for quarantine to end. (Davening = "praying" in Yiddish.)

“My lord, the Dwarves are…” Lindir’s brow pulled together then, the Elf rather lost for words. Whatever exactly the Dwarves _were_ , it had rendered him speechless, which did little to comfort Elrond.

“They are what?” Elrond managed to keep his voice calm, but his mind was already racing with the possibilities. Yesterday they had swam naked in the Fountain of Celebrían, all of Thorin’s Company. Elrond and Lindir had arrived just in time to witness a cannonball so perfectly executed it managed to drench everyone, Thorin included. It was the only time Elrond had heard the dour Dwarf-king laugh.

Their pantries were plundered, their wine casks were dry, and Lindir had yet to find a single Elf willing to drain and clean the fountain Elrond had commissioned for his _wife_ as a _wedding gift_. That last one hurt, more than Elrond cared to admit. To make matters worse, Gandalf still wouldn’t say _when_ the Dwarves were leaving. Elrond half-wondered whether anything in Rivendell would survive to see that blessed day.

“I think they are…” Fear gripped Elrond’s heart as he waited to hear what disaster Thorin’s Company had wrought now. If he were less patient, or perhaps less kind, Elrond might have strangled Lindir for dragging the news out so torturously. But as he was patient, and indeed very kind, Elrond only _thought_ about strangling the Elf.

Finally, Lindir found the words: “I believe the Dwarves are praying.”

“Praying?”

“Yes, I believe that’s what it is.”

Elrond frowned. “And this is…” He gestured vaguely, waiting for Lindir to elaborate. When the Elf said nothing, Elrond sighed, “Their prayer concerns you?”

“No, my lord,” Lindir hastened to reply. He swallowed a nervous smile and ventured, “I--they’re just--everything they’ve done is so…disruptive. This is different. _That_ is what worries me.”

Elrond considered that. Lindir was plainly suspicious at the lack of _disruption_ , as he put it. Elrond thought _disruption_ was a charitable take on things. The Dwarves of Erebor had descended on Rivendell like a whirlwind, leaving chaos and desecrated bridal fountains in their wake.

Upon reflection, Elrond decided it _was_ potentially worrisome, if the Dwarves were truly behaving so very differently from their usual boisterousness. “I suppose it sounds odd,” he allowed.

And so, with a mixture of dread and curiosity, Elrond went to find these praying Dwarves. Over the centuries, Elrond had mastered ancient Khuzdul, yet he still knew little of Dwarven ritual. The Dwarves believed themselves to be creations of the Vala Aulë, whom they called Mahal. Elrond remembered that from the first Dwarven scroll he had ever deciphered.

Aulë--or Mahal, rather--fashioned seven Dwarves out of stone long before the Children of Ilúvatar set foot in Beleriand. Mahal loved them, and sought to conceal them from Eru Ilúvatar, for only Eru was meant to create life. When the Dwarves were discovered, Eru demanded that Mahal kill them, make of them a sacrifice to prove his obedience. Mahal wept for his children, yet did as Eru asked. He raised his hammer--but the Dwarves did not perish. Eru allowed them to live, accepting Mahal’s obedience as sacrifice enough. Eru adopted the Dwarves as his own, but the Dwarves chose to follow Mahal instead.

That was why the Dwarves were such gifted smiths and miners and craftsmen. They were Mahal’s people, and Mahal their Vala. And if Mahal was the Smith of the Valar, well, then the Dwarves would be the greatest crafters this world had ever known.

When at last Elrond beheld Thorin’s Company, it was on the terrace overlooking the Fords of Isen. The thirteen Dwarves stood together, facing the mountains to the east, the morning sun hanging just over the tallest peak. Fleetingly, Elrond wondered if they knew they were facing Erebor. _Surely, they must know._

It was a strange sight; Elrond understood Lindir’s confusion. When Elves prayed, it was through poetry and song, through quiet contemplation or a walk in the woods. That was how Elves communed with the Valar. They glorified Eru through sweet words and a lovely melody and beholding nature’s beauty. Elrond did not recognize what was before him now.

The Dwarves swayed, moving each to his own rhythm. Their cloaks were pulled over their heads, the hoods casting their features in shadow. Several had the edges of their cloaks gathered in their hands, the braided fringes woven delicately between their fingers. Their lips moved fervently, though no sound escaped them. More than once, they bowed.

Thorin stood near the front of the group. Elrond almost did not recognize the Dwarf-king, his bearing was so unlike what Elrond had come to expect. All the anger and hostility had vanished, and even some of his noble air had dissipated. What Elrond saw of his face was unlined, making the king look far younger than his many years. Thorin appeared earnest and humble, as though he had given himself over entirely to this moment. With wonder, Elrond watched as Thorin lifted the fringes of his cloak to his lips and kissed them once, twice, thrice.

It was all very intimate. Suddenly, Elrond felt as though he was intruding, spying on something private and secret. And yet, the Dwarves were not hiding; they prayed in the open air, unrestrained. This was their moment, and they did not shy from it.

Balin appeared to be leading the group. In a clear voice, he called out phrases in Khuzdul periodically, as if to alert the others to where he was in the order. Sometimes Elrond recognized a word. _Mahal_ featured often. One prayer they all spoke as one, a hand clasped over their eyes, before Balin again took up the chant alone. The others followed the music of his words in silence, their bodies swaying in answer.

The sun’s rays had filled the entire terrace when they were finally done. Slowly, the hoods fell from their heads, the fringes dropped from their hands with one last kiss. For a moment, the energy of their morning prayer lingered over the group, crackling with a quiet intensity.

Then Ori--one of the youngest, Elrond remembered--looked at his brothers with wide eyes and announced, “Fuck, I’m hungry.”

Dori gazed at him in horror. Nori, on the other hand, was positively glowing with pride. At once, the others roared with laughter--save Thorin, who had not seemed to notice the cussing adolescent. The Dwarf-king still faced the east, his cloak draped over his arm. With his free hand, he rolled the fringes between his fingers as his lips formed a final prayer.

“ _Don’t_ ,” cried Dori, swatting at Nori, who had just pulled Ori into a bear hug, “don’t encourage such behavior, you’ll _ruin_ him--”

Nori grabbed Ori’s head and planted a dozen kisses on his forehead. “Don’t tell Dori,” he said, throwing his arms around him again, “you’re my favorite brother.”

Dori’s indignant shouts of “ _I’m right here_!” were drowned out by a second wave of laughter from the surrounding Dwarves. Nori patted Ori on the back and led him off toward the kitchens, the others in tow. Dori set off after them, still grumbling. Soon, only Thorin remained.

The Dwarf-king folded his cloak slowly and methodically. When he was done, he tucked it under his arm and lifted his gaze to the mountains one last time. Elrond wondered what he was seeing--was he imagining the Lonely Mountain in the distance, waiting for him, calling him home?

Fleetingly, Elrond thought of the Havens of Sirion. Even now, if he tried, Elrond could remember what it felt like to play in the Bay of Balar, to bury his toes in the sand and let the sun warm him after a cold morning swim. But remembering that brought other memories, too. The destruction of his people, of his childhood, the day the sons of Fëanor came and stole him and Elros away. 

It had been years, centuries since Elrond had let himself think of these things. He made a point to _not_ remember. Even now, it made his heart ache. The Havens were gone forever, drowned beneath the sea. That home was lost to him. But Erebor could yet be reclaimed.

Thorin turned. A jolt went through Elrond as Thorin’s eyes met his. The Dwarf-king looked at him for a long moment, his face unreadable.

Something leapt into Elrond’s throat--a greeting, an apology, he did not know. Whatever the words were, he could not get them out. The sudden awkwardness felt most unlike him. Elrond did not know what to make of it.

The Dwarf-king did not speak, either. He inclined his head, and dropped his gaze, and followed his people to the kitchens.


End file.
